


Don't Tell Robb

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa asks Jon for a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Robb

“ _Are you busy? Can you come over?_ ” 

Jon reread the text for the fifty-seventh time since his phone buzzed with it twenty minutes ago. That was just like Sansa, to already push ahead with a second question before he even got a word out of his mouth first. 

It was late on a weekend so Sansa should have been busy with her friends; he could only think something must have happened and she’d called on him as a last resort. Maybe Robb drank too much again and ended up puking on the lawn while Sansa tried to carry him inside, like last summer. Or Arya had refused to acknowledge the bedtime set for her, or run off somewhere in the dark with Gendry and Hot Pie. Or maybe something had happened to one of their dogs, the huge, massive beasts that all the Starks were fond of, who looked more like wolves than animals that should be living in a house in the suburbs, big as it may have been. Sansa knew he had his own car, large enough to take one of the dogs where it needed to go, as old and rundown as it was. In fact, that was probably why she called him, of all people. It wouldn’t matter if Grey Wind, Summer, or Shaggydog scratched another rip in the backseat of his car or left nose prints on the windows—no one would probably notice anyway. 

The headlights of his car illuminated the front yard as he pulled into the driveway—no Robb. His car was gone, too, and those of Mr. and Mrs. Stark, so he parked beside Sansa’s red two-door. 

He walked straight into the house as usual, not bothering with the doorbell, and left his shoes respectfully beside the front door. No ailing dogs greeted him in the entryway. _Arya, then,_ he decided. 

“Sansa?” he called. The house was strangely quiet, the lights dim. “Bran? Rickon?” 

Sansa came in from the porch looking as if she were ready to go on a date, her dark grey dress low-cut and tight in places Jon didn’t want to let himself think about. He suddenly felt rather underdressed in comparison, standing there dumbly in his black T-shirt and jeans, but Sansa tended to have that effect on him in general. 

_Great,_ he thought. She probably wanted him to wait here for Arya while she was out or go pick up Bran and Rickon later. Things could be worse, though, than hanging out alone at the Stark house, with their massive flat-screen TV and more channels than he could ever dream of. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked automatically, getting right to the point before she had to breeze out the door wherever she was headed. “Where is everyone?” 

“Hi, Jon,” she breathed, latching the sliding door closed. Through the glass, he saw the shadows of the dogs prowling in the vast backyard. “Everything’s fine. My parents went to see Aunt Lysa for the weekend, Robb’s at a party with Jeyne Westerling, and Arya, Bran, and Rickon are camping with Uncle Benjen.” 

He furrowed his brow, mentally checking her laundry list of Stark whereabouts. Yep, she had accounted for everyone. “Then—what—”

“I just—I have to ask you something.” She exhaled. “Don’t tell Robb.” 

“What is it?”

“I need you to say yes first.” 

“Yes to what?” 

“Say yes, and then I’ll tell you.” 

“I can’t answer yes to a question I don’t even know.” 

“Well,” her voice seemed rather higher-pitched than usual. “You’ve been with girls before, right? I mean, you had a girlfriend. Ygritte. Right?”

He nodded. 

“And I heard you guys broke up for good when she moved away for college?”

He nodded again. He hadn’t really discussed the details of the demise of his and Ygritte’s relationship before with Robb, even, much less Sansa. 

“But you dated her for, like, over a year before that? So you must have had a lot of experiences during that time?” 

He was starting to feel like a bobble head, soundlessly replying. This time, he added a shrug. It didn’t help much. 

“So, what I’m saying is…” She took another deep breath. “Could you—maybe—teach me?” 

Was he hearing things? Or had Sansa actually, really, truly, for lack of a better term, _booty called_ him? He pushed the phrase out of his mind with revulsion; it was the type of thing Theon, he and Robb’s sleaziest friend who Jon had always thought of with questionable character, incessantly talked about. Jon doubted the truth of those stories, and he doubted that this was actually happening right now. 

Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he awkwardly compromised by opening his mouth wordlessly and closing it again like a confused fish. 

“W—What?” he stammered out at long last. 

Sansa put a hand on her hip. “I know you heard me, Jon.” 

He’d heard, but that didn’t make her question any easier to understand. “Teach you?” The words echoed in his ears, which was strange, because they seemed to be ringing already. 

“Yes,” she said, seeming a little irritated. “I mean, you know how to do it, right?” 

Did he? All of that already seemed so long ago, and his first time with Ygritte hadn’t been hers, and Ygritte had taken the lead most of the time, showing him where to put his hands and telling him where she liked to be kissed, but she seemed to enjoy it all the same… 

“Yeah—yes. Sure. I mean, I know how.” 

Sansa was starting to look entirely unconvinced and like she’d perhaps made a mistaken in inviting him over. 

Jon felt more awkward than he ever had in his life, even more than the time his shy friend Sam asked him to explain what it was like to be with Ygritte, and the several times this older woman, Mel, had hit on him at work. “Why?”

“I wanted to make sure you actually knew what you were doing before we—”

“No, I mean… Why do you want to learn? Why now?” he asked rather meekly, when what he really wanted to say was, “ _Why me?_ ”

She blushed scarlet. He tried to think about how hard Robb would punch him in the face if he found out Jon thought _that_ was cute. 

“I just—I mean, Jeyne Poole’s always talking with Margaery about it, and we’re all going away to college next year, and who knows what will happen then, so I thought it would be nice, or make sense for me to… I just want to know what it’s like,” she said lamely. 

“And you asked me because…?” He saw her face fall and immediately corrected. “What about Joffrey?” He tried not to say Sansa’s boyfriend’s name as if it were a sour grape, even though imagining Joffrey doing anything with Sansa—doing _that_ —made him want to retch. 

“We broke up,” she said. “Weeks ago.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he lied. 

“I’m not,” she said. 

“Can’t you ask someone your age?” 

Sansa’s face twisted, and he knew the answer already: the threat of incurring Joffrey’s wrath if he found out would deter anyone half in their right mind. He was exorbitantly wealthy, extremely popular for reasons Jon couldn’t fathom, and possessed a temper that superseded both his bank account and long list of followers. 

Well, if it couldn’t be Joffrey, or any of the boys in Sansa’s grade, or anyone else she knew at Winterfell High School, for that matter, or Robb, obviously, or any of their other friends who were currently occupied with girlfriends, and it _would not_ be Theon, then who did that leave? 

Only him. Only Jon. 

And Sam, of course, but he was so involved in books Jon didn’t think Sam had ever truly noticed Sansa the few times they’d met and vice versa. 

He stopped himself. What was he doing? Was he actually considering this? Had he really, truly gone so far off the deep end that he would entertain this kind of request from Robb’s little sister? 

She seemed to read his mind. “I’m _seventeen,_ Jon. I’m not the little girl anymore who forced you to play Barbies while you waited around for Robb to finish doing his chores.” 

This was one thing, at least, of which Jon was painfully aware. The revelation had first struck him when he’d accompanied the Starks on a trip to the beach two years ago, where he’d been faced with quite the view of Sansa in her new swimsuit, a blue bikini he knew matched her eyes despite being concealed by sunglasses at the time. He’d never been so glad to acquiesce to Arya, Bran, and Rickon’s demands to bury him up to his neck in sand. Even though he was just a couple years older than her, he hadn’t forgotten chastising himself afterwards for acting like a pervert; the mental self-flagellation didn’t seem to have had any effect on his urges towards Sansa, though. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“I—I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. You never have?” She looked at him like she was waiting to be disappointed. 

“No… I mean, I guess. Yes.” Were any of those the right answer? Would his brain ever function properly again? 

A smile flitted around the corners of her mouth. “Please?” 

“This isn’t a good idea.” _Correction,_ he wanted to add. _It’s officially the worst idea ever._

His eyes caught on the most recent Stark family portrait that hung on the wall beside them. Ned, the man he’d always looked to as a father, even if he wasn’t truly his own, stared back at him. Jon looked away before his eyes could stray over to Catelyn. Of all the Starks, she’d always seemed to like him the least, so he could only imagine how she would react to this. 

“Yes, it is, Jon.” 

He turned for the door. “I think I should go home.” 

“No, wait,” she reached out for his arm, her long nails snagging on the side of his T-shirt. “It’s not just because Joffrey broke up with me. Or because of what Jeyne and Margaery were saying. Well, it is, and it isn’t. Listening to them, and their stories, and how it was for them, and how some of those guys acted… it made me realize something. It’s… it’s because of you. I want someone like you. Not just like you. Just you.” 

Had he heard correctly? No, that wasn’t possible… no, surely this was some kind of prank, a prank with Theon likely behind it, conspiring with Sansa. Even if the idea disgusted him, surely it was Theon Sansa wanted for this kind of thing, not him... 

“You’re different. In a good way. And I know you would never laugh at me,” she continued. 

The idea that someone would made fury lance through his chest. How could anyone consider doing that to someone like Sansa? She was right about that at least; those kinds of people didn’t deserve a damn from her. 

“Jon?” 

He wondered if he should just gouge out his eyes and ears now to save himself from any more of this torture, or to avoid the pain Ned or Robb or even probably Joffrey would inflict on him later. 

She jutted her chin defiantly. “Otherwise I’ll ask Theon instead.” 

Horrible images worse than Robb’s fist colliding with his jaw and Ned sicking the Stark family dogs on him flashed through his mind. 

“This is what you want?” 

“Yes.” Sansa looked more gorgeous than ever standing in front of him, not because of the dress that snagged his eyes every time he glanced up, or how her legs seemed to stem for miles, or the way her words had started to make his jeans seem uncomfortably snug. It was because she stared back at him with a confidence he couldn’t deny even as he urged himself to disbelieve, her conviction more than enough to cause him to reconsider his. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Are you saying yes?” She smirked. 

He frowned, drawing his eyebrows together, and finally gave a slight, terse nod. 

Sansa grinned broadly. He’d hated that expression as a child because it meant more often than not she’d gotten her way at his and Robb’s expense, but now it did strange things to his insides. Did his heart always beat this fast? Had his blood always felt this hot beneath his skin? 

She led him up the stairs and down the hall to her room, which he didn’t think he’d seen since he helped move her furniture in a few years ago when, after her millionth row with Arya, she’d finally succeeded in convincing her parents to let her have her own room, taking over the family office. It was clean, sophisticated, and organized—the furniture, carved out of a white-grey wood, all matched, a pile of her books for school sat on the desk by the window, and her closet doors were open to reveal not a hanger out of place. 

He stood awkwardly in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching as she cleared off an inordinate number of decorative pillows from her bed. The twin bed with pink sheets he’d remembered heaving down the hallway was gone, replaced by a queen size draped in blue. 

“Well?” she prompted.

“You can’t—you usually don’t just go right into it,” he said, flustered. His dick was begging to differ, though, already aroused by Sansa’s close proximity. 

“I _know,_ Jon,” she said, stepping right up to him, daring him to kiss her. 

He pushed any last misgivings aside. Sansa deserved the best, and that was what he was determined to give her. 

He reached out a hand, cupping her cheek as he studied her features. Did he kiss her there first? Or did he just go for it, right on the lips? On the forehead, to start with, perhaps, to avoid scaring her off already… 

“Everyone will be back sometime tomorrow, you know,” she said, giving him an impatient grin. 

_So much for being a romantic,_ he thought, diving for her mouth, his lips colliding with hers more forcefully than he intended. Sansa didn’t seem to mind, though, pressing back against him with a kind of aggressive fervor he flushed just imagining. His hands seemed to settle of their own accord, bracing himself against her welcome assault, the one he’d used to cup her cheek sliding around to the back of her neck, his thumb sliding along her jaw, the other coming to rest on her hip, his fingers flexing against the elastic material of her dress. 

Sansa let her hands wander, disentangling them from his hair, one drifting down his arm until it connected with the curve of his elbow and the other feeling her way down his chest, his heart hammering beneath her palm. He wondered if she felt the same inside, if her bravado was just for show, but it seemed a bit untoward at this point to try to find out…

She seemed not to share such qualms about him, however, as she slipped a hand beneath his shirt, her fingers notching in the ridges of his abdomen. His muscles jumped reflexively, and he felt her smirk as she continued to kiss him without missing a beat. 

He retaliated by dipping his tongue between her lips, expecting her to draw back, or close her mouth, or maybe even nip at him, but instead she opened more, letting his tongue dance against hers until she pulled away with his bottom lip between her teeth. He repressed the knowledge of how she’d probably learned a trick like that. 

“Are you going to wear this the entire time?” she asked, tugging on the hem of his T-shirt. 

Before he could think of a witty reply, she was already helping him out of his shirt and dropping it, crumpled, onto the floor, standing back to evaluate him. He watched her bite her lip as her eyes darkened—come to think of it, the last time she would have seen him this way was probably that awkward day at the beach, back when he’d still been gangly and scrawny, before he’d spent a good portion of his free time after Ygritte left working out in the gym, releasing his related frustrations. 

“I always wanted to touch you,” she said, with an air of admiration. 

“Touch as much as you’d like.” His voice came out as some kind of strangled whisper he didn’t even recognize. 

She looked up at him from between her long eyelashes. “Did you ever want to touch me, Jon?” 

He decided, at that very second, to give up wondering if this were a dream or not, if this were a joke, if something else sinister lurked behind her words and actions. If nothing else happened, if he didn’t make it beyond this point because she announced she’d changed her mind and didn’t really want him after all, or Robb came in and struck him silly, he thought he could live with this moment enough for the rest of his life. 

“I—um—” There was no sense in lying anymore, in waiting for the right pretty, romantic words to form in his half-addled brain, to put in the immense effort it would take to send them to his tongue and let them roll off. “Yes.” 

She shimmied her dress up until it bunched around her hips and led Jon’s hands to grip the end of it. Just as she did with his shirt, he helped her slide her dress up over her head, leaving just her bra and underwear. 

They were matching, which was so very Sansa-like, and made of black lace. He was certain Sansa must have bought these on one of her frequent shopping excursions with Jeyne Poole and Margaery as he couldn’t see Mrs. Stark approving of such an outfit, but for once, he found he appreciated Sansa’s abilities to demurely skirt the rules of House Stark. And as for himself, this was already worth any retribution he might receive. 

“I wasn’t sure if I should wear them or not,” she said, switching her weight from one foot to the other. The mere idea that she had entertained doing that made his cock press so hard against the seam of his jeans that he started to wish the metal teeth would restrict the blood flow to that area of his body lest it be permanently marked with an orderly row of tiny indents. 

“They’re very nice,” he said in the same choked voice as before. He didn’t think he would have been able to handle the alternative. 

She twisted her limbs together as she waited for him to touch her again—one long, smooth leg over the other, her arms crossed at the elbows and hands clasped together against her shoulder. She didn’t say anything this time, nothing to tease him or hurry him along, and he could have slapped himself. _Of course,_ behind her veneer of boldness, she would be nervous. How stupid had he been for not anticipating this point? 

“You’re beautiful,” he said with more fortitude, kicking himself for saving those words till now. He’d always known that, always thought so whenever he saw her, not just now, not just because now she was almost naked and looking at him with an expression he’d only seen her use on lemon cakes before, long waves of her bright red hair tumbling down her chest. 

“Thank you, Jon,” she said, rather formally considering the situation. 

He tilted her chin up to his to kiss her again, slow and gentle so as not to spook her, her hair like satin ribbon between his fingers as he brushed it aside. She walked backwards, pulling him along with her towards the bed, and dropped down on it. 

Without question, she motioned for him to stand between her legs and began to unbuckle his belt. Jon sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut as her hands worked so close to where his cock fought to escape into her hand. She gave no indication she noticed, though, as she slid the button of his jeans out of its loop with great difficulty and lowered the zipper with tremulous slowness. 

She gave a short tug on the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and his cock sprang free into Sansa’s waiting fingers. She gave it an experimental stroke, and it took most of Jon’s concentration to keep his knees from buckling. With one hand tight around him, she used the other to push his pants and underwear to the floor. He tried to toe off his socks, and stumbled slightly, jamming himself even further into her hand; it took another furious mental reminder that if any of the Stark men came home at this very moment he would likely be a corpse by morning to keep from spilling. 

He glanced down and caught her staring. “Haven’t you seen—”

“I have,” she said, continuing to run her hand along his length as a blush crept up her chest. “Just… yours is nicer.” 

She eyed his cock again and licked her lips. 

“Sansa, no,” he said, not sure if he was more worried she wouldn’t like it or if she would and he would last an embarrassingly short time. “You don’t—”

But she went ahead and licked up the underside, and his protests died in his throat. 

Jon was torn between closing his eyes because feeling and watching what Sansa was doing to him bordered on the precipice of being too much, and keeping them open to enjoy the exquisite view. He settled into a pattern of allowing them to gape for long stretches, ingraining everything about this moment into his mind—the slick feel of her sliding against his skin, the softness of her lips, the way she used one hand to cup his balls and the other to hold his cock still, the caress of her smooth hair against his thigh—followed by shutting them for a few seconds to steady his resolve. 

“Sansa,” he said, even as his hand automatically snaked back into her hair to draw her closer. She swirled her tongue around the tip. “That’s—that’s more than enough…” 

His cock vehemently disagreed, though, eagerly leaping against her tongue. 

“Don’t you like it?” She pulled away, looking up at him with a smirk, a bit of the confidence she started with back. 

“I fucking love it,” he admitted, trying to breath normally again. “But there’s something else I’d like to do to you even more.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Even the keen resemblance of her expression to the look Mrs. Stark gave him whenever he tracked mud into the house couldn’t kill his hard-on. “And what’s that?” 

“It’s easier if I show you,” he said, feeling himself flush again. Ygritte had made up a hundred names for it, but he didn’t feel like sharing any of those considering most of them were offensive and more than a little ridiculous. 

She paused, curious, and he took the opportunity to sink to his knees, nudging her thighs apart just enough to fit one hand between them. He ran a finger over the black lace of her underwear, wondering how he was going to survive this with how warm and damp she already felt through the material. 

He glanced up to see her watching him, and without looking away, he slipped beneath the thin material. He’d lain awake at night, his hand looped around his cock, and imagined touching Sansa like this a thousand times—he had no willpower left anymore to continue lying to himself—and even his most vivid, obscene fantasy couldn’t have come close to this. He dipped a finger into her and it came away silky, his insides turning molten at the very thought that _he_ was the cause of this reaction, that she had meant what she said, and _he_ was who she wanted. 

“Can I take these off?” He tugged at the lace that now seemed rough in comparison to her, his words merely a rumble in his chest now. She must have understood, though, because she nodded once before letting her head fall back on the mattress, her hands twined in her hair. 

He added her underwear to the scattered clothes on the floor. Sansa might have been good at the game of seduction, luring him over like this, wearing a dress that made his blood thrum, teasing him with her words, but this, this was what he was good at. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and let his tongue skim over her clit. 

Before he could wonder if she was thoroughly scandalized by his actions, she moaned and arched her back, informing him that even if she was taken aback by his salacious behavior, it was in the best possible way. That was all the motivation he needed. 

He took a few minutes to find which spots she liked best, but once he did, it didn’t take long at all for him to have her writhing beneath his tongue, her hands tugging his hair, her legs pressing alongside him as she came, sighing something that sounded suspiciously like his name. It had been so long since he’d done this—he’d forgotten how he craved the approval of her sighs and moans, the pressure of her building around his fingers and beneath his tongue, the addictive rush of how she grew only wetter for him. He went back to work, this time adding a finger and then two inside when she bucked her hips up to meet his gentle foray paired with the assault of his tongue. 

“How do you _do_ that?” she asked, breathless after peaking for the second time. 

Jon shrugged, licking the taste of her off his lips. “Just like it, I guess.” 

“Probably not as much as I did.” Sansa propped herself up on her elbows, flashing him an easy smile. 

He stood up and stepped back, straightening his legs. His knees didn’t hurt so much from prolonged contact with the carpet as the impatient throb of his cock against his belly. “Do you still want to—?”

“You’re not going anywhere, Jon Snow,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him back towards her. Sansa threw back the comforter and the sheets, stretching before him in glorious near-nakedness. He spread himself over her, the bed shifting as he settled between her legs. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

He hadn’t. In fact, he’d been avoiding it for that very reason. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the final article of clothing Sansa still wore because he hadn’t had the nerve to remove it yet. It seemed stupid after what he’d just done to Sansa and her to him that he should feel embarrassed reaching over to take off her bra, but he somehow did. 

Because there was no going back from that, from any of this. Because he knew once he saw her, all of her, everything she’d meant to him before would change. Also, because for all the wonders he could work with his mouth, he usually sucked at simple things like this.

He remembered Ygritte giggling, not unkindly, when he’d fumbled with hers, and Theon and Robb laughing uproariously when she’d regaled them with the story. Sansa was not any of them, though. He wondered yet again why she’d chosen him, when she could have picked anyone, someone who would ravish her the way she deserved, not turn red when she asked him to do what was expected. 

Sansa arched beneath him on the pillows and suddenly they were kissing again, this time in a most intimate position no part of Jon’s body could ignore. Dipping one hand between them, he reached around her with the other and unclasped the scant black lace on the first try. 

He pushed it aside, exhilaration pumping through his veins. He could do this. And it would be better than good, it would be—

And then Jon’s next thought almost made his blood run cold. 

_He didn’t bring a condom._

Why would he? How in seven hells was he supposed to imagine this would happen tonight, or ever? With concerted effort, he continued his soft ministrations between her legs, hoping Sansa wouldn’t notice his hesitation. He entertained the idea that maybe Robb would have some; he didn’t say much about that part of his relationship with Jeyne Westerling despite Theon’s incessant prying, but looking for something like that that in his room seemed to go beyond even best friend territory, and he would rather send himself away to an isolated stretch of Siberia and never touch a girl again than check Mr. and Mrs. Stark’s room. 

Sansa caught him frowning. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s—it’s—” Her eyebrows drew closer, and Jon realized she thought it was a problem with her. As if such a thing was remotely possible. “It’s not you, no, not at all. It’s… I don’t have a condom.” 

He expected her face to scrunch in irritation again, or to bark out, in anger, “ _I thought you knew what you were doing!_ ” Instead, she smiled, scooted out from beneath him, and reached over to open the top drawer of the tiny dresser beside her bed. Underneath a stack of assorted papers and hair bands, a brush and some lip glosses, she pulled out an old jewelry box, and buried beneath a knot of necklaces and bracelets, she pulled out a square packet and handed it to him. 

“Where did you—”

“Jeyne gave me some a while ago when I thought Joffrey and I might—you know—”

Jon jerked his head to show her that explanation was satisfactory enough. He didn’t think there was possibly anything that could soften him now, but he didn’t want to take the risk. 

“If you don’t like it, we can stop at any time or do something else,” he told her, feeling very lecture-y. Good. He’d need feeling like some old codger to avoid spilling the second they started. 

She raised her eyebrow in challenge. “Make me like it.” 

He wasn’t sure what she was expecting; he wasn’t some hero out of a romance novel who could work magic. He wasn’t even sure he could make the experience painless, having never done quite this before. Sansa seemed to have enjoyed everything immensely so far, though, so he positioned himself between her legs and pushed into her. 

Ygritte had always closed her eyes and whispered filthy things in his ear, but Sansa bit her lip and kept hers open. He did too, sliding in millimeter by millimeter, her hot, slick walls tight around him, tighter than he even gripped himself in his own hand. He waited for some kind of resistance, some barrier he had to push through, dreading it even as some primal instinct urged him forward, savoring the feeling of her opening to wrap around his cock. 

She finally gasped once he’d settled all the way in, and he responded with a groan, unable to stifle it, hoping she didn’t find him disgusting for finding such pleasure within her. He drew out and she wound her arms tighter around him, pressing them against his lower back, silently urging him on. He couldn’t help but groan again, this time more like a hideous grunt that surely she found repulsive, and he thought of how they must look, her spread beneath him, unfathomably beautiful, and him sweating and struggling to maintain the self-control on which he’d always prided himself. He pushed in slowly until Sansa gave a breathy sign that made his cock give a reflexive jump. 

“I like the sounds you make,” she whispered in his ear. 

He didn’t have the air in his lungs to tell her he liked the ones she made too, the little gasps and throaty exhales and hitches that had him reciting asinine things like the detailed steps of changing the oil in his car and the list of phone numbers he’d committed to memory in case of emergencies. 

“I think you might like something else, too,” he said, once he reestablished his lungs were functioning and realized she felt comfortable with him buried inside her. It was his favorite daydream (even though he entertained it most often at night, if he was being accurate). And if this was the one and only time he had with her, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to live it out. 

She smirked. “Is this also something you have to show me?”

He rolled over so abruptly she squealed, surprised to find herself astride him. 

“So what am I supposed to—” She leaned forward onto his chest to steady herself, sinking further down onto him in the process. “ _Oh._ Never mind.” 

He didn’t know how she thought someone could do this and laugh. He couldn’t even breathe. 

She tossed her curtain of hair over her shoulder as she slid up and down his length again, exposing her breasts to him. He let himself reach out and touch at long last, the pale skin there even softer and smoother than the rest of her. She encouraged him with her body, rolling her hips in a motion that he found himself rapidly drowning in. 

He thrust upward, tilting her forward so she surrounded him, overwhelming his senses, the slight bite of her nails into his chest, her lips rubbed a tantalizing bright pink from their kissing, her nipples skimming his hot skin. It wasn’t better than his wildest dream—it was incomprehensible, unimaginable, beyond the limits of his understanding. 

She squeezed herself around him, eliciting an automatic buck of his hips and a giggle from Sansa, who repeated the action a few more times once she discovered he eagerly he seemed to respond to it. He moved his hand between them, finding the spot again that made Sansa actually call out his name this time, _his_ name a plead, _his_ name a demand as she wanted faster, harder, slower, and softer, more and less, deeper and shallower. 

It didn’t take long after that for him to feel her walls flutter around him, watching as her eyes shut, her back bowed backward, her lips parted. He followed along, spurting for what felt like an eternity, an endless, blissful eternity, the sight of her above him, the sensation of her clasped around him, more than enough to make him come undone. 

Sansa flopped back next to him, staring at the ceiling, her voice breathy and ethereal. “You know, Jeyne lied.” 

He turned on his side to meet her eyes. “About what?”

“She said it would be bad, the first time.”

He frowned. Ygritte had always told him he knew nothing; maybe she had been right. “Why would it be bad?” 

“She said it would hurt.” 

He stilled, wondering if he’d gone too far, if he’d read her all wrong, gotten too lost in his own desires. “Did it?”

“No.” A smile played around the corners of her mouth. “And she said I wouldn’t even feel any different.” 

“What do you mean?” 

This time, Sansa hesitated to answer. “I feel like, for once, I made the right choice.” 

Jon’s heart lifted. “Do you think you might feel like making it again?” 

She grinned. “Just once again?” 

He moved closer, covering Sansa with his body, his cock already hardening again. “As many times as you like. Just one thing.” 

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell Robb.”


End file.
